Chapter 4, everybody! Let's just assume steady updates for this until I get the other fic's rear in gear. X|

There's so many different fanon approaches to dragon names that I'm almost certain the idea of nest-names and gift-names came from somewhere. In the meantime though, yay! Names! :D

Big Hero 6 © 2014 Disney

How To Train Your Dragon © 2010 DreamWorks

Well this could be going better.

Obake was stiff from one side to the other thanks to sleeping on the ground with a dragon on top of him, had been rudely woken up before he was ready by a whistling and an explosion—had catapulted awake thinking dragon raid—

No, no…just his little experiment.

Okay, so, bad news: young Night Furies still had their breath weapon. Good news: it had seemed more inclined to use it on a pool full of fish instead of him, so there was some hope. Even better, he had found a way to at least slow it down as far as escaping the cove went, so….It tossing a fish at him was odd though.

Still remarkably skittish, which was to be expected—flattening itself to the ground when he looked at it, staying on the opposite side of the pool…at least until he apparently baffled it by cooking the fish over a fire.

Now that was an interesting wrinkle, it tossing a fish into the fire to see what happened. And it was willing to take scraps, so there was some progress, he figured.

And now for the rest of the day, which had a twofold purpose, as far as he was concerned. One: getting the dragon acclimated to his presence.

Two: avoiding the village for as long as he was able.

Would probably have to go back tonight, at least to get some supplies—something better suited to keeping the bones in a dragon wing still and aligned, for starters. He was pretty certain he could machine something innocuous enough up in the forge, sketching ideas in the sand as the dragon explored the cove, walking circuits around the pool to see if any more fish had floated up, and routinely fetching sticks and dropping them next to Obake. He had no idea what prompted this bizarre behavior.

Now, however, because apparently it had decided it was tired of walking around the cove, it was sitting across from him and watching him scratch out designs in the sand. He wondered what it thought of the action, if there was some sort of dragon-habit that sand doodles translated into. Or maybe he was giving it too much credit.

But there was definitely intelligence behind those eyes—not human-level, certainly, but definitely minimum dog-level.

It made a noise, stood, paced away again. Glance to make sure it wasn't trying to escape…no, no, just another stick, this one long and straight, like the one he was working with. Trotted back over to him—well, that was progressing nicely—

Blink when it dug the tip of the stick into the sand and started going around him, spinning at times, tossing its head at others, most definitely attempting to draw in the sand, if one were being generous. He watched, confused, until it finally came to a halt in front of him and sat down, glancing at him, the lines in the sand, back up at him.

He looked at the whole event, back to it—free hand palm up. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"

It tipped its head, considering…worked the stick around in its mouth until it was holding an end, reached over, careful not to touch its own lines—got ready to bring the stick down on his sketches.

He used his own to parry. "Ha."

The dragon tried again—quick block. Try again—quick block. Shift its weight to lean closer, try again—block, this time flipping the stick out to land on its line.

The dragon quickly moved the stick to catch his.

On a purely analytical level, this was idiocy—he was basically engaged in a swordfight with a dragon, defending sand doodles that would be gone with the next rain.

But another part of him was actually enjoying himself, surprisingly—this was…dare he say it? Kind of fun, and he had forgotten what fun felt like.

The dragon finally managed to hit his stick in a way that ripped it out of his hand—it dropped its own stick, yipping happily as it bounced up and down on its front paws.

"Fine, you won this round," he told it, feeling a smile on his face and not quite sure how it got there. Sit forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling….

The dragon sniffed at one of his hands—probably smelled fish—he got ready to move—

It surprised him by nuzzling in against his palm.

Okay, this particular smile had no business on his face, he had no reason to have that giddy feeling bubbling up as he rubbed its head, scratching behind its ears and under its jawline, it purring happily and mincing closer the longer this went on.

Afternoon…he remembered vaguely, from before Callaghan had taken over, when pets weren't considered frivolous—you weren't supposed to name something the first day. But it had been long enough, he thought, and it had certainly survived overnight….

And he was feeling attached, surprisingly.

Move his hand so the scratching was under the jaw, push a little so he could look it in the eye. Green eyes, pupils now wide, squarish instead of round. Ears up, body wiggling a little. Definitely a far cry from yesterday, or even this morning.

Yes sir, he had no business smiling like he was, but he wasn't going to complain—things were going off without a hitch.

Enough so that he did indeed feel comfortable enough naming this thing.

"Hiro."


This was going quite well, if you asked Little-Brother.

The Yokai was sticking around and not trying to kill him, which was good—mostly just lazing about near the fire, like a full content predator. But it didn't seem inclined to attack, even with him moving around, exploring the cove and checking to see if any more fish had decided to go belly up (they had not, which was very rude), both of them watching each other carefully…this was good. This was definitely good.

Not good enough to get him to let his guard down though.

He started bringing sticks over to spit next to the Yokai after a while, mostly because he needed something to do, mostly because he figured the Yokai might appreciate the help making another nest, one that hopefully didn't catch on fire this time. It glanced over every time he brought a stick, would occasionally throw one in the fire, but didn't seem inclined to try to make another nest. More inclined to keep the fire fed, for some reason.

Sitting across from it and watching it scratch in the sand, he figured it was because fire was pleasantly warm when it was fed and not raging hungrily. The scales on that side were feeling nice and sun-baked, even after the sun moved and started casting long shadows along the cove. He wasn't quite drowsy, but with a full belly and warm scales, he was feeling remarkably calm for sitting across from a predator that hunted dragons.

He was still turning over just why this Yokai was being friendly after shooting him down—maybe it just needed to get a dragon's attention, and a tied-up one was the only way it could think of without ending in a fight? No, no, that didn't make sense—it seemed quite ready to shoot him before it changed its mind and let him loose. Did it know he was young, and had the same wrong-feeling about killing younglings as he did killing sleeping targets? There was a reason, a good reason—he was sure of it. If he could just figure it out….

He looked back at the scratching in the sand, wondering if it was trying for a sand-nest this time…blinked at the distinct patterns. Honeysuckle liked making patterns in the sand, scraping out big lines that made pictures if seen from high enough up—they usually had to drag her back from any sandy beaches they found. Was this something that needed to be seen from far away? Yokai didn't fly (as far as he knew, although they were capable of crossing water)—did this have some other purpose?

Hence his test—dragging a stick around in the sand around the Yokai, mostly to get attention and see the reaction. It wasn't like either one of them could get high enough to see any pattern.

Neither its posture nor its tone seemed impressed, like Honeysuckle would be if someone tried to do sand-scratches—next test: Honeysuckle hated it if someone messed up one of her lines. Move the stick around in his mouth, reached out, got ready to bring the stick down on its lines—

It blocked, barking out a short ha.

Aha! So it did care about the lines! Try again, same result, try again, same result, try again—block it when it tried to scratch at his own lines. Glance up at its face—oh, it was on now.

Something occurred to him, while engaging in this mock-fight (he was pretty sure it was a mock-fight)—he was stick-fighting with the most dangerous creature known to dragonkind. On the one talon, this was a fun game that he was definitely going to do with Older-Brother when he got back; on the other…this was very strange.

And then he succeeded in taking its stick away from it.

He couldn't help dropping his own stick and bouncing up and down, cheering at his success—take that! Forget that he was facing down a predator that was…also happy, if that's what the curved mouth and bared teeth meant—he couldn't see any ill intent in the expression….

It had been a big leap, nerve-wracking, to put his head against one of the forepaws that still smelled like fish, eyes closed and braced for an impact.

He was rewarded by those clever paws groom-nibbling along his head, behind the ears and under the jaw, places he had a hard time reaching—it took a lot of effort to keep his foot from thumping in happiness because ooh that hit the spot

Blinked up at it when it gently tipped his head up—this—this wasn't it, was it? When he realized he made an error in judgement…except it was still giving off happy vibes, no hunting-fighting-killing vibes, not even the tight tension of earlier. It, at least, was a bit quicker to trust than he was.

And then it said something in that not-dragon language, that sounded so very much like he ought to be able to understand it if he just listened hard enough.

"Hiro."

It was something he was inclined to think meant friend, as the afternoon wore on—it kept addressing him with that word, as he wandered around again, bringing more sticks and occasionally sitting with it next to the tamed fire. It definitely meant something to it, to keep addressing him as such.

It was looking up at where the sun was touching the edge of the cliff face—the only part of the cove the sun was still touching—when it occurred to him that it might have intended that word as a name.

His ears flipped forward at that thought—dragons had nest-names and glory-names; the first were names given at hatching, to tell one apart from the other (like Third-in-a-Clutch-of-Twelve, which was a mouthful but not exactly something they could shorten, since there were a lot of Thirds). The second, the glory-names, were earned—either in battle or through some other feat. Flew-Closest-to-the-Sun, for example, the Flightmare that flew so high that he ran out of air and plummeted back down and had to be saved by Catching-Flightmare, a Zippleback that managed to be in the right place and right time.

Flew-Closest-to-the-Sun also reported a curve to the earth when he had come to, which was interesting but neither here nor there.

Little-Brother, still with his nest-name, had yet to earn a glory-name (although now he was daydreaming about being called Yokai-Tamer). So…why was it calling him a name? Did Yokai routinely gift names, like how Older-Brother had named Honeysuckle? Was that how they did it?

…Come to think of it, what was this Yokai's name?

He sat up, trying not to be abrupt about it, sidled a little closer to the Yokai.

"What, Hiro?" it asked—tone went up at the end, definitely a question. Okay, how to do this….

He put a paw to his chest. "Hiro," he said, trying the word it kept saying. "Hiurrr-uh," he tried again, trying to make it sound less like Dragonese and more like…he didn't know. Yokainese. Pat his chest again. "Hiro."

Pat the Yokai's chest, near the shoulder—easy to do, since it was still reclining against a rock to better absorb the fire-heat.

Pat his own chest again. "Hiro." Pat its chest, say nothing. Pat his chest again. "Hiro."

This went on for a minute, until he started wondering if it was expecting a gift-name in return.

Something finally clicked behind those eyes though.

It tapped itself on its chest. "Obake." Point at him. "Hiro." Back to itself. "Obake. Is that what you're after?"

Obake had been the noise repeated, both times when it indicated itself. So it already had a name—he wondered if someone else had gifted it to him.

Paw on its chest. "Obake." Paw to his own. "Hiro." Nod, try to imitate its earlier expression, when it had been happy—glance up to see the sun was no longer touching any part of the cove.

He curled up next to the Yokai—Obake, he supposed—side against his long thin legs, not sturdy and just the right length like dragon legs. The Yokai was cool, kind of like Healing-Talons, but in a different way, like a Nightmare that was starting to lose its fire and needed to get stoked again. He wondered if the Yokai was needing that sort of help, and that was why he had been so desperate as to shoot Little-Brother down.

Hiro…he kind of liked it.

The drowsy content feeling finally overrode any caution he had left—his eyes slid shut, head shifting a little—start awake a little at the feeling of groom-nibbling at his head again, drift back off.

I know you're coming for me, big brother—but don't worry.

I can hang on a little longer.


Older-Brother was beyond furious, beyond sick—if it weren't for the fact he hadn't eaten anything, he was certain some poor sap would have ended up with a half-digested fish on his head.

Mountain-King was not letting any flights go out.

Oh sure, he said it was because of dragon hunters in the area—but he was certainly fine with sending them to Yokai! Yokai, the island where his brother had been shot down, was still there waiting and hoping for him to come and save him—

If he were even still alive.

Older-Light-Fury had been sick when he told her what happened, was currently lying on a chunk of ice after screaming her anguish—she was their dam's clutchmate, had raised them when their parents had been shot down by some grisly hunter. She was also currently chewing on a chunk of ice, and it was enough to make him wince at the idea that he had caused stress-eating.

But now….

Now Little-Brother was still off, by himself, probably injured, definitely alone and scared, on an island filled with the most dangerous not-dragons in existence.

And him, grounded.

He hated it, tried to rebel—but the Mountain-King's will was strongly layered over his own—he couldn't openly disobey it.

Although….

A day or two might see him slacking off, and Older-Brother was certain his fervor would not have died…sneak out then….

But he had to be sure he wasn't seen.

Glance back at Older-Light-Fury, still gnawing at the chunk of ice in the absence of real food, glittering white scales heaving—

White scales that….

Older-Brother bounded through the nest, searching for the other Light Fury within—found her eventually, ushered her into an abandoned cave, made sure it was abandoned and that there were no eavesdroppers.

"We're going after Little-Brother," he told her, once he was assured they were alone.

Honeysuckle immediately glanced in the direction of the main cavern, where Mountain-King reclined.

"I know—but he can't keep us here forever," he said, waving a paw. "We have to be ready to go when we can, and we have to be sure we're not seen."

"I don't know," Honeysuckle said, voice quiet; he paced closer so they could keep the conversation muted. "I guess if we go at night—you'd blend in, but I'd stick out—I'd have to do my scales—"

"Exactly. Honeysuckle, I need you to do me a favor.

"I need you to teach me how to hide my scales."